My life in this country has, in great parts, been shaped by the people I met, the friendships I made and, at times, the lessons I learnt from when I was faced with the odd human dung beetle. Having arrived in England nearly two decades ago, just me, so very young and so, so naïve, I could not hide behind a pre-formed community, existing relationships or friendships. Being alone and new to everywhere I went, I had to immerse myself into life in a small town and rural area in the middle of the country. Looking back now I don’t know how I did it and I admire my bravery and guts to just carry on with my life in a place which was so strange to me, how I was never phased by the lack of familiarity around me, the many words I did not understand and the way of life that was so unlike from everything I was used to. What I do know is that I would certainly not have stuck around for so long, had it not been for the people that crossed my paths, some for only a few minutes, some for a few years and some for the majority of my time here.
The generosity and kindness of the British revealed itself on my very first day here: Shortly after boarding the plane I started speaking to a couple from London and by the time we set to land, they had offered me a lift from the airport to St Pancras. A few hours later, a total stranger not only helped me off the train with my painfully heavy luggage but also called me a lift from his mobile, in addition to giving me money for a cab, “just in case they don’t turn up”. Such acts of kindness by strangers have weaved their way through my story in this country. A woman, now one of my closest friends, gave me a place to live when I was homeless after a messy break-up. She barely knew me but because of her I got back on my feet and thrived. One of my closest friends is the result of temping somewhere for a mere two weeks, but she has stayed in my heart and life since. I call another woman my English sister. She has known me for many years and, despite some personal ups and downs, we have ended up closer than ever. Our kids are best friends and I can count on her any day or night. Those are just a few snapshots of many wonderful moments I experienced. Whether those friendships I encountered over the years have lasted or have come and gone, one thing applies to them all: The people I met and spent time with were, by and large, genuinely welcoming and friendly. Who I was, where I was from and what I did had no impact on how they included and embraced me. On the contrary: There has always been a curious interest as to which part of the world I was from, followed by an even more enthusiastic recollection of their own personal connection to my home country. The stereotype of a standoff-ish, cool and calm Brit has never shown itself to me; instead I have been able to see their warmth, kindness, brilliant humour and self-deprecation. There were lots of things that have kept me here for so long, and the people of Britain certainly played a big part of it. The event of Brexit made me question my fellow humans in this country, wondering, as I walked the streets after the referendum, who had voted to leave and who had chosen to stay. However, by recalling all the affection and love I’d experienced throughout the time here makes it easier to see past the recent political events and will, hopefully, mend the cracks that still show. With Valentine’s Day upon us soon, this is my declaration of love to the residents of Brexitland: I love you. Always have, always will. And thank you for loving me in return.

It is the day after the UK has left the EU, after nearly half a century of being a member, and after, what sometimes seemed like a shambles of a long, and drawn-out negotiation period of three and a half years. Today seems surreal, reading the news and realising it has actually happened. Part of me had always hoped, since that fateful day in June 2016, that something would happen, some miracle would prevent this moment from coming. Hope is a wonderful thing and has certainly carried me through the last few years, never giving up on the idea that Brexit was going to be just the farce it started out with, that lie on the side of that bus. Hope doesn’t stop real life happening and so, here we are, a country no longer part of what is a highly complex yet ultimately positive institution. Historically, the UK has always managed to keep itself at arm’s length, not just geographically, safely separated by the water in the Channel, but also by opting out of the common currency, the Euro. Seen as the slightly quirky and at times awkward partner in the European club, I also experienced said distance by its people, often referring to Europe as if it was not part of it. “I am going to Europe”, rather than “I am going to mainland Europe”, was a phrase I often heard and, depending on how well I knew the speaker, often corrected: “You know you are part of Europe, don’t you?” Maybe it was this perception, this identity of never really belonging to Europe, not feeling European, which is, like for me, an essential part of many people living on the continent. I am, to equal parts, German and European, and unspeakably proud of the fact that, with a slick ID card, I can travel across the borders of all EU countries without having to stop and justify my reason for travel – the EU is my homeland, its countries are mine, its opportunities are gifts I am allowed to explore and experience. Now, in less than a year’s time, I will have to show a passport to escape from this island in order to get to a place where I am allowed to indulge in this mindboggling freedom. And my heart breaks a little at this thought.

This week has been a bit of a challenge for me. Emotionally, I have been feeling on edge, fragile and overwhelmed by things I usually handle and approach with my usual can-do-attitude; physically I have been tired, weak, with dizzy spells, missing my energetic, lively body that carries me through life every day. Logically, I know it is most likely the time of the year, the Christmas blues and fighting God knows how many germs I am subjected to on a daily basis. I know it will pass, as certain as Spring will come in all its glory, those luscious smells, those pastel colours, that tentative warmth of sunshine that lets you wear a t-shirt outside for the first time in months. It’s not like me to dwell on things – I always have another plan if one doesn’t work out. Hope never fails me, it never has. However, this week has felt differently. Maybe it is a virus. Maybe it is Holocaust Memorial Day, highlighting the horrors of my country’s dark history and the pain I feel for all its victims. Maybe it is the problems of my students, which I carry with me and think about, more than I probably should. Maybe it is the worry about Brexit, and the uncertainty it holds for me. Maybe it is just ‘Weltschmerz’, lamenting the inadequacy of the state of the world, a feeling of carrying the problems of the world on one’s shoulders. Maybe it is all those changes and challenges I have set for myself in the next year. Knowing that I am the maker of my own fate, luck and misery is a heavy burden. Who knows. I don’t. Whilst I can hear sirens of German police cars in my head, simultaneously to the snoring of my baby boy, I am aware that the reality on hand and the reality of my head are two different things. It’s never as bad as it seems. Change will come and create a new reality. Dark clouds will pass and make space for light. I am grateful for those challenging times, not now, but in hindsight. They make me appreciate those moments of brilliance, when my world turns in the right direction, when the puzzle pieces click together. There is always tomorrow and next week. It will be ok. 

You could say I fell into my first career by chance. I’d been working in a food business as a customer service advisor when I decided to study for a degree. I quit the job to work evening and night shifts in a conference centre so I could study and learn during the day; self-support was always an important feature of my decisions in life. After a lot of hard work, four years later, I had finished my degree and was looking for some temporary work, when a former colleague from the food business recruited me back to my old place of work. What was meant to be a temporary solution turned into nearly ten years of employment in various roles, most notably six years as a food buyer. Looking back, I know what made it so easy for me to fall back into the rhythm of that business, taking to any of the roles they offered like a fish to water: it was familiar, it was safe. I knew the people, I knew the way the business operated, I was known within the business and its supplier base. I thought about quitting many of times, mostly as I was disgruntled by the lack of pay rises for women whilst watching my male counterparts jump from promotion to next challenge, including the accompanying pay package. There were perks, too, of course: I had made some great friends, the work atmosphere was mostly enjoyable with lots of banter and practical jokes getting us through what would have been mundane and insignificant days. A lot of the time we looked at each other like a work family, and the comfortable, cosy knowledge that I was going to see the same faces on a Monday and relive the antics of late Friday nights in the pub, made me settle for the job, the money and the people.

Familiarity got pushed aside when I became a mother. A lot of things get put into perspective and, looking at my little baby girl, I knew that settling was not going to cut it any longer. I would hate for my daughter to settle for anything but the very best, and so clarity cut harshly through the foggy curtains of my comfort zone. It still took me two years and some harsh rejections to make the final separation. Once I had broken free from what I knew, I struggled a lot to adjust. I remained in the same industry for a few months but I was not happy. A long commute, a stiff corporate environment, a jealous, malicious new boss and a job that paid well but sucked every last drop of passion and sanity I had left made me question everything and I desperately longed for the fuzzy, warm feeling I used to have when I walked to my old job every morning. However, my pride and stubbornness drove me to look past the comfortable memories, the pining for days and moments long gone. Instead of settling again, I pushed myself further, I jumped through every hoop that was placed in my way, I revised for more tests than I sat during my degree, I presented and talked in front of the British Council to get a scholarship and, most nerve-wrecking of all, stood in front of a class of 30 teenagers, teaching my heart out, hoping to get offered a place in an outstanding school’s training programme. I did. And I got the scholarship. Fast forward one and a half years later I have not had a moment of familiarity, bar the giddy feeling of secure knowledge that I made the right choice. Changing my career was the scariest and most uncomfortable thing I have ever forced myself to do. I bit off much more than I could chew and it was one of the toughest and most challenging years of my life. I went from knowing everything, from being an expert in what I used to do, to knowing not much, having to start again from scratch. I was scared and frustrated a lot of the time, battling with the demons of the unknown. Yet somehow, jumping into the unfamiliar breathed new life into me and gave me back my bite. I’d highly recommend it to anyone. And I would do it all over again.

I am currently sitting on the children’s ward of a hospital, waiting for a nurse to tell my partner and me that our little boy has come out of surgery and can be brought back to his bed where his three favourite cuddly plush toys are patiently watching “Incredibles 2” on the screen which is placed next to the bed of another little boy to my right. Baby Jack Jack (a character of the film, in case you haven’t seen it) is currently fighting with a raccoon and I have to smile, despite the constant anxious knot in my stomach. Baby Jack Jack reminds me of my baby boy a lot: always a cheeky smile on his face, a whirlwind of curiosity and causing havoc and chaos wherever he goes.

My son’s surgery is minor, a routine procedure, nothing of huge concern. I know I am very lucky sitting here, knowing that, hopefully tomorrow, we are allowed to take him back home and life can go back to normal whilst he is healing and getting better. Earlier on, whilst walking back from the anaesthetist’s room, my partner and I acknowledged the fact that, for many parents, life in hospital or frequent stays, procedures and operations are the norm, and how our worry and emotional turmoil at the thought of our baby boy having surgery is a small dot in comparison to other families. There is a lady who tells us of her daughter’s 7th surgery and monthly hospital stays and knows there are many more to come; one of the fathers on the ward recounts the times he has spent here with his son. I sympathise and feel with them, counting my lucky stars. I am welcoming my emotions and fears as they, if anything, let me know how appreciative I am of our general good health and luck to have healthy children. It also makes me realise that, as many parents would say, I would gladly take my children’s places and go through any harm and pain for them. The worry of the operation, which was cancelled twice before today’s date, has had me in tears many of times and I have played all realistic and unrealistic scenarios in my head, often stopping myself from diving into the darkest, most horrendous fears any parent could imagine. Being rational and matter of fact is something I am and can be, but the dramatic “what ifs and buts” are never far away. When faced with those terrors, the true emotional rollercoaster of being a parent takes me on its wildest ride, shaking me around, turning me upside down and making me realise that, when signing up for experiencing all the highs and joyful loop de loops with my children, I also became more vulnerable and scared than ever before. Nothing could have prepared me for the raw emotions I experience now and have done in the last few years. And it breaks my heart for those parents whose life in hospital has become part of their normality, whatever “normal” is.

Having my baby back from the operating theatre, despite seeing him in distress and disoriented from the anesthetic makes me ride on waves of relief and gratitude, eternally grateful for the wonderful doctors and nurses that have taken care of him and contributed to making his quality of life better. I feel drained and worn out from the rush of varying emotions but watching him clutch his favourite teddy, peacefully sleeping off the narcotics, I feel equipped again to deal with whatever our life has in store for us next. I wouldn’t swap it for anything else, no matter how intense and hard these emotions can be.

My favourite month of the year is December – not only because of the obvious, huge event of Christmas for those of us who celebrate it, but also because of a month of anticipation, preparation, decoration and abundance of sparkly lights everywhere you look.  I love the sound of Christmas songs, traditional and contemporary, the feasts of festive food, the smell of baked treats and the excitement of my children, as they open the doors of their advent calendars.  As I spoke to one of my friends recently, we agreed that our children definitely are keeping the Christmas magic alive for us, but I also had to admit that, for whatever reason, Christmas had always been a special time of the year for me.  Be it because my birthday is close by, or that I’ve always had a thing for fantastic moments, I eagerly await the giddy excitement that starts in the last days of November and builds up when “Christmas Eve Eve” is close.  I feel lucky and blessed to be able to create a magical time for my children, put food on the table and buy them presents.  I know not everyone can do it.  I am realistic and appreciative of life’s little luxuries and have made more conscious choices recently, in order to avoid unnecessary spending or just getting the kids stuff for the sake of it.  I have no issues wrapping up a shower gel or socks and slippers they need, and have included second hand and pre-loved gifts, in order to do my bit for their appreciation for Christmas and receiving things.  We play lots of games and make sure we get to go outside for plenty of fresh air, to avoid an overload of sensory stimulation and to counteract the piece of chocolate they were allowed to eat before breakfast. Nevertheless, I find myself often stressed and on edge, especially in the days before and after the big day, wanting to ensure everything is perfect for my kids and the illusion of Santa is kept alive.  I know that, in the grand-scheme of things all that matters is that we are together, but my overexcitement always gets the better of, and then runs away with me, leaving me slightly overwhelmed after everything is over.  Maybe it’s my self-critical approach to everything I do, maybe it’s the sad and life-changing events that shaped my Christmas past (unlike Scrooge’s demons, mine were never able to attack my joy and love for Christmas).  Maybe it’s the curse of social media and the constant ‘in-your-face-perfection’ and ‘we-are-having-a-better-time-than-you’ posts that outweigh the more realistic photos that remain in the recycle bins of our phones.  Maybe it is just purely unrealistic to be happy and peaceful all the time.  Most of the time I find the bickering of my children amusing but on the third day of fighting over toys, food, the seat next to me or who gets a piggyback next, nerves can feel frail and my patience is running low.  However, in the somewhat overwhelming merging of days and hours, unstructured playtimes and one too many Christmas films and chocolates, there are so many perfect imperfect moments that I will cherish forever.  The red cheeks after our Christmas Day walk, the gusto with which my youngest stuffs veg into his little mouth, the giggles as they ride their rocking horses, the laughter as my boyfriend and I play quizzes instead of watching TV, and not to forget all the cheese we never eat the rest of the year but indulge that one night.  Christmas is never perfect in our home, no matter how hard I try every year.  I fail and I guess that’s OK.  Perfect doesn’t exist, and it doesn’t have to.  As long as there is love and laughter, caring and an appreciation for how lucky we are, then that is pretty awesome.  I’ll settle for that.

I am ill. Having previously taken great pride in not having a day off work in over 10 years, my super-strength immune system has, in the last couple of years, decided that it doesn’t want to play super hero anymore. Working as a teacher carries a certain risk with it. It is the season of coughing, spluttering, sneezing and sniffling, and, whilst I was determined to survive this monster term of 9 weeks without any time off sick, I have had to miserably admit defeat. Dragging myself into work, only to spend the day shivering and slowly losing my voice, whilst also battling with a painful cough, I eventually burnt up and started feeling delirious. My colleagues urged me to go home, I stubbornly dug in my heels and stuck it out. Surprisingly, no one gave me a medal for making it through the day and now I am sofa bound, with a fever, watching my daughter sleep off her virus on the other side of the settee.

On the one side I am fully aware that there is no shame in being ill and needing time to recover and to get well, however, there seems to be a culture of soldiering on even when you should have laid down your armour and sought refuge in the safety and comfort of you bed. I asked myself why we seem to force ourselves to carry on instead of paying attention to what our precious bodies so desperately need. I appreciate that there are some people who are more resilient than others and we all cope differently with a snotty nose or a full-on bug, and some of us need to be bribed to stay at home when we can barely stand up anymore. However, from what I have observed, the majority of us push ourselves and our bodies into situations that are neither beneficial to us or to those around us. Why is that? Speaking for myself only, I am a mind-over-matter person. My mind is always stronger than my body, and it takes a lot for me to concede and give in, never mind, to give up. This has served me well so far in life and has gotten me through some pretty tough times, as well as pushed me towards my goals step by step. I have ran two marathons that way and worked 80-hour weeks to change my career and study at post-graduate level. Sometimes however, this inbuilt pig-headedness and strive to carry on no matter what, which may be useful for long-distance running, is unconstructive when applied to our health, be it physical or mental. If I carry on, even if my body screams no, wanting a rest to recuperate and heal, it will eventually collapse and take even longer to get better. That’s not rocket science and no one needs a medical degree to know that. What we do need to realise, however, is that it is not only important,, no, it is of the utmost importance that we listen to our bodies and minds and cut them some slack now and again. They are doing some pretty awesome work ALL THE TIME, without a day off EVER. Surely some rest is a decent compromise?

Over the past few months I have come to realise that I do not need to prove myself to anyone and that I do not have to be a hero all the time. I am allowed to be human, to be fallible and imperfect and most of all, even though I find it hard to accept, I do get ill now and again. That doesn’t let anyone down. It is normal. What does let me down is when I don’t allow myself to heal. So, for now, I am embracing the rest and calm, the endless cups of hot tea and honey with lemon, the snuggles with my baby girl, the day curled up on the sofa under a soft blanket and the messages from colleagues and friends that wish me well. Soon enough I will be ready to power on and embrace the chaos and everyday hustle and bustle my family and job bring.

This week I got a new tattoo. I had been planning it for years, but becoming a mama and lots of life-changing events, as well as finding the right artist pushed that little dream back for a while. I am by no means an expert in getting tattooed and, even though this is not my first piece of skin art, I am still really nervous beforehand and surprised by the sensation of needle to skin, something that turns into various degrees of pain, depending on where you get tattooed as well as for how long you have been sitting in the chair. This tattoo was a surprise in many ways: I had always thought I was more of a black and grey ink person and that one small tattoo in colour was going to be my only one of this kind. However, after some thought I decided to have another one in colour and I am so pleased with it. Also, I had never envisaged me being able to sit in a chair for hours and hours. Two and a half hours was my previous limit and that had been more than enough for me. I had witnessed my partner during day sittings and admired his patience and endurance, holding his limb still because the nerves had other ideas and twitched uncontrollably. And then, I also learnt that I could trust the artist to make the right decision and take the artistic lead, knowing much more about colours and what would look good on my vampire-pale skin. She didn’t disappoint. On the contrary. She blew me away with her skill and art. The last thing that was a lovely revelation was that, if you trust the artist and have a good connection with them, it doesn’t matter if you share snippets of life stories or sit in complete but comfortable silence, watching them work and listening to their awesome playlist (the latter was a fabulous bonus!). I can’t lie, however – the last few hours of the second day session were tough and I thought a few times whether I should just ask my tattooist to stop. Luckily, a bit of numbing spray in the final stages (which, by the way, burns like hell for half a minute before it takes full effect!) helped me push through and I am so glad I did. When I finally clambered off the chair, shaky and cold, body a little in shock, I felt great relief and such a sense of achievement. If you can liken getting a tattoo to having a baby, then the line of wanting to give up and powering through is equally thin. In any case, I was a little more complete with something I had imagined on my skin for so long. It was beautiful.

Whilst I am still limping around a bit and dodge my toddler either clinging to or slapping my sore thigh, I am savouring the memories of the day I got tattooed and what this means to me. They will be with me for the rest of my life, like the beautiful art on my skin, and I am glad I had to wait so long. It was definitely worth it.

A trawl through social media, especially Facebook and Twitter (whilst Instagram, for now, prioritises the right angle and filter applied to a photo) these days is, more frequently than not, a cringeworthy documentary of people laying into each other, slating their differing views, dragging each other through the proverbial sewers in the most disgusting and, at times, inhumane ways. To me it appears that a lot of people forget that there is a real human being on the other side. Sometimes I wish I was brave enough to join so-called “discussions” (although really, the verbal vomit couldn’t be further from a civilised conversation) to point out the often racist, sexist and politically incorrect drivel typed, usually in badly formed sentences with even worse spelling and a severe lack of grasp on basic grammar. Some of my friends intervene and I admire them. However, I have seen that most of those people cannot be argued with, so it is a pointless exercise to me and a waste of my time. Nevertheless, the existence of the callous and cowardly slating and shaming on social media, detached from a face to face conversation, scares me and makes me wonder what has gone wrong with our world to end up like this.
Recently, an institution got slandered online by some people who a) didn’t have any understanding of the highly complicated industry and b) were quick to hide behind a keyboard to verbally regurgitate their limited and uneducated views, rather than to engage in an adult and diplomatic conversation, complaining and moaning about something they had no first-hand knowledge of, let alone the decency to address the so called issue in an appropriate forum. It got massively blown out of proportion, with hundreds of people reading lie after lie, fabricating one toxic tale after the other, happily tearing into it like sensation-hungry hyenas. It made me sick with anger and indignation.  But – I am not really surprised. The world we live in has become hostile and self-righteous. Everyone is entitled, everyone is right and an expert in things they have never even come across. Look at Brexit, for example. Millions think they understand this complex issue yet couldn’t explain what the EU is and how it works. I studied European politics, but even for me the issue is highly complicated and sensitive, so where does the arrogance of so many come from to claim they know it all and think that isolation from the rest of the world is a good idea?
What is more, people will always focus on the bad, taking, it seems, great pleasure in pointing out faults and mistakes of others. Reasons for this, I can only imagine, are to feel better about their own inadequacies and inabilities to sort the mess on their own doorstep. It’s so much easier telling someone else they are at fault rather than focusing on becoming a better person yourself. I am not sure which new levels of nastiness we as a race have to reach to do a much-needed U-turn and start taking care of one another again. World Mental Health Day and countless organisations promoting mental health are all well and good, but if the dialogue online reaches crisis point and the sensational enjoyment of others’ mistakes and differences isn’t brought to a halt, then I am horrified of the intolerant and small-minded future we have ahead of us. The rise of right-wing and atrocious public figures as well as questionable leaders on the political landscape are not the cause but the result of what is currently going on. It starts with a nasty and thoughtless word. It can lead to much worse.